The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)

“So, who killed Virgil and why?” Hadrian asked.

“Won’t ever find out,” Royce replied. “It’s a double blind. Quadruple if you add in Albert and Constance. We apprehended the poet under trumped-up allegations, nothing dire enough to arouse suspicion—even from someone like me. Then, a second group was hired to do the killing, and probably they were told an entirely different story. All of which makes it incredibly difficult to trace the responsible party or determine the actual motive.”

“Well, not to be insensitive to Mister Puck and his demise, but”—Albert looked over at the coins—“I’m in dire need of a new doublet and breeches. It’s important to keep up appearances you know, and—”

“Go ahead.” Royce nodded. “Take a tenent, but the new outfit will have to wait. We still need to pay Gwen for the use of the room and catch up on our late stable fees.”

“Well then, we’re in luck because I already have another job lined up.”

“Not through Lady Constance, I hope. I’d prefer something a little more straightforward. A job where I know what I’m getting into before I step in.”

“Ah—no, this one didn’t come from Constance, but it’s . . .” Albert paused. “Unusual.”

Royce folded his arms. He’d had his fill of unusual. “How so?”

“Well, normally I have to poke around and look for work, but this fellow came to me, or rather he came looking for you.” Albert looked pointedly at Royce.

“Me?” This unusual was sounding worse by the second.

Albert nodded. “He’s staying in the Gentry Quarter. Wouldn’t give me a name or even tell me what it was about. He said he’d know when you returned, and he’d stop by then.”

“He would know?”

Albert nodded. “That’s what he said.”

“Well, doesn’t that just make me feel all warm and cozy. Did he mention how he knew I was living in Melengar, or how he knew me, period?”

“Nope, only said he was up from Colnora and was looking for . . .” Albert paused to think. “It was a strange name, one that made me think of a cleaning service. He didn’t mention Riyria, but when I did, he recognized the word. Hmm, I wish I could remember what it was.” Albert furrowed his brow further in concentration.

“Don’t worry about it,” Royce told him and wished he could take the same advice, but he knew all too well that the stranger from Colnora had called him Duster.





Chapter Three

The Whiskey Baron





It took only a few hours for the mystery man to show up at The Rose and the Thorn. They had time for baths and a hot meal. Hadrian was able to down two tankards of beer, but Royce wanted to stay clearheaded. Normally he unwound after a job with a glass or two of Montemorcey, and he was annoyed that the wine would have to wait. Albert had Gwen seat the potential client in the Diamond Room, which had been kept empty of other patrons to give them privacy.

He sat in the back, an elderly man with gray hair and a face as salty and rugged as a seaside cliff. He wasn’t tall; if he stood, Royce suspected they might be the same height. He was, however, big. More than stocky, and even larger than portly, the man eclipsed the chair in which he sat and strained the seams of his traveling clothes. The tunic he wore had double stitching and metal studs, which decorated the floral designs across his chest. A heavy cloak lay tossed over the back of the chair beside him. Made of a thick two-ply wool, the wrap looked new. He had gloves, too, expensive calfskin. They rested on the table near the cloak. Each had the same floral design as his tunic. A matched set, Royce thought.

The visitor watched Royce and Hadrian enter as if studying them for later recall. He didn’t bother getting up or offer to shake hands. He patiently waited as Royce and Hadrian took their seats on the stools opposite him, not saying a word.

He focused on Royce. “Is it you? Are you Dust—”

Royce cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t use that name anymore.”

The man nodded. “Fair enough. What should I call you, then?”

“Royce will do, and the big fella is Hadrian.”

Each gave a nod of acknowledgment.

“Who are you?” Royce asked.

“I’m a man who lived in Colnora during the Year of Fear.”

Royce let his hand slip off the table. Beside him, Hadrian placed both feet flat on the floor to either side of his stool. The old man didn’t appear formidable in any sense, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable: revenge. He wanted it, and he’d come to get it.

“Name’s Gabriel Winter.”

Royce knew the name but had yet to make the connection. And as far as he could recall, he’d never tangled with anyone named Winter.

“You terrorized Colnora. The entire city was paralyzed from the horror you wrought. Pushcart people, street sweepers, shop owners, business barons, everyone right up to the magistrate was terrified. Even brave Count Simon fled to Aquesta that summer. That did a lot for morale, I can tell you.” The fat of the man’s neck quivered as he spoke, but his eyes never wavered, and his voice remained steady and calm. Both hands stayed in plain sight, ten pudgy fingers, palms on the table beside the empty gloves and half-melted candle. Nothing else lay between Royce and Winter but the tabletop.

No cup or mug—he hadn’t ordered a drink.

The Diamond Room was quiet. Not part of the original inn, the room had been recently built to accommodate the tavern’s growing popularity. The addition filled the oblong space between The Rose and the Thorn and Medford House and gave the place its diamond shape. The only sounds came from two barmaids cleaning mugs in the other room.

“What do you want?” Royce asked as his fingers entered the front fold of his cloak and slipped around the handle of Alverstone.

“I want to hire you.”

It shouldn’t have surprised Royce. Albert had described the man as a potential client. But so much about the meeting was worrisome. “Hire me?”

“Yes,” the man replied with curt candor, a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he knew a secret or the punch line to a joke that had yet to be revealed.

“To do what?”

“Exactly what you did in Colnora. Only this time I want you to make the city of Rochelle bleed.”

Hadrian shifted in his seat, his feet coming off poised footings. “Why?”

The man pushed back from the table, folding his arms across his chest as if contemplating what to say next, or maybe just working himself up to say it. Some things didn’t come easy. Royce understood that well enough, and from the miserable expression on the man’s face, he guessed that whatever he was about to say, this might be the first time he’d put it into words.

“My wife died ten years ago. Just been me and my daughter since then. Good girl, my Genny, faithful, loyal, a hard worker, quick as a whip, and tough as leather. We did well together, the two of us. She got me through the tough times, and there were plenty of those. But less than four months back she went off with a nobleman from Rochelle. Fella named Leo Hargrave.”

Hadrian leaned forward. “Leopold Hargrave?”

“That’s him.”

Royce raised a questioning brow at Hadrian.

“He’s the Duke of Rochelle. It’s in Alburn, southeast of here. I was in King Reinhold’s army down that way before I shipped off to Calis.”

“Reinhold is dead,” Winter said.

“The king of Alburn has died?”

“Him and his whole family. Bishop Tynewell is going to crown a new king come the Spring Festival. Genny wrote me all about it. She wrote me three days a week ever since the wedding, then nothing.” The man frowned, his sight falling to the surface of the table where he scraped at a worn spot with his thumbnail, trying to tear back a splinter.

Royce nodded. “So, what? You think she’s dead?”

“I know she is.”